IN THE PARLOUR
(ii)

He How unobtrusively the snow
Comes down beyond the crimson blind!
I see it not, but through my mind
Sieve the large flakes, both soft and slow,
Warding us in from humankind.
She My nimble needle forth and back
Goes twanging through the tambour-frame
To stitch a bird without a name.
If an indifferent heart should crack
’Twould sound, I fancy, much the same.
He A cruel night for beast or man
To be abroad. But we might doubt
By this warm hearth the snow shut out,
Save for a denser silence than
Is wont to compass us about.
She The needle and the web, how fine!
The silks no thicker than a hair!
Each choice of tint calls forth my care,
And slowly goes the great design.
No matter. I have time to spare.
He ’Twill soon be time to go to bed—
Sweet bed, but cold! Drowsed though I be
I’ll sit it out until I see
The wooden bird put forth his head,
And beck, and cry Cuckoo! to me.
She With every length of gliding floss
Wrought in to make my sampler gay
So much life’s thread I stitch away.
But this bright wing will flaunt the gloss
Of life when I am dull as clay.
He

She
He
She
He


She
He		 Cuckoo! Cuckoo! My dear, you heard
The clock? Another evening gone!
Asleep?
Not quite.
You’ve scarcely stirred.
In grave consideration
My thoughts upon that silly bird
Were fixed.
And mine on this.
Absurd!
We even think in unison.